


Shopping Cart Crashes

by AFireInTheAttic



Series: Revamps [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Retail, F/M, Holidays, Walmart, retail hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-12 22:26:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16880385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFireInTheAttic/pseuds/AFireInTheAttic
Summary: It was almost unsurprising to see her. “Are you following me?” Scott asked slowly.“I keep hoping you won’t remember me,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “But I promise I’m not that creepy. I’m just trying to get Christmas shopping done and keep running into you. Are you like, the only employee here?” She yawned.





	Shopping Cart Crashes

**Author's Note:**

> Another crosspost from @kiraandscott. This one is only lightly edited, but I'm still counting it as a revamp :)

**One**

“I hate this job,” Scott said. Maybe it wasn't the smartest thing to say when other people, including his supervisor, were standing nearby, but she hated her job, too, so it was probably fine.

Braeden patted his head. “I get a sick, perverse pleasure in sending you out to walk the floor. Go, padawan.”

He skulked across the breakroom, pausing at the door to call back to her, “One day I’ll tell everyone that you’re a secret nerd and your life will be ruined.”

“Sure you will,” she said, and blew him a kiss. She still had ten minutes left for her break. She turned up her music loud enough for him to hear. Today, it was Nicki Minaj, probably Pink Friday.

He preferred to spend his breaks quietly, since being out on the floor was actually the worst. Especially right now, in the weeks leading up to Christmas. People tended to be pretty rude during the “most wonderful time of the year.”

As he was thinking as much, someone rammed their cart into him. It was sadly, not an unfamiliar sensation.

“Holy crap, I am so sorry—I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?” The girl rushes around the cart to examine him. “I just—I got distracted in the cookware aisle and lost my parents so I’ve been looking for them. And I know, I’m not like, five any more, but it still sucks to lose your parents in the store at 21—trust me. You don’t care about that. Crap. Are you okay?”

She’s so earnest and looks so worried that he finds himself saying, “Yes,” even though his legs are throbbing where she ran into him. Customer's always right, etc. At least she acknowledged him, though—he's had customers continue to push right by him in the past. He clears his throat and tries to ignore the pain. “Do you want me to page your parents on the intercom?”

“Oh, uh, no, that would be humiliating,” she says, grinning. “I mean, just under running my cart into a really ho—aaaaah—nice employee. Um. Gotta go?” She hurried away, head down.

“I hope you find them?” he called, dazedly.

* * *

 

**Two**

“You’re on registers today,” Braeden said while Scott was clocking in. She was already on break, headphones secured in place while she sipped on vanilla almond milk. She was listening to TLC today. “Maybe this way you won’t cause any accidents.”

He glared at her. “That wasn’t my fault.”

She took another sip. “But it’s funnier to act like it was.”

He rolled his eyes and nudged her affectionately as he walked by. He hated his job, but Braeden was a good supervisor. She made sure his hours weren’t terrible and that he didn’t work the floors too many days in a row.

As it was, working the registers was only a little better. He was on his feet just as much, customers got just as pissed when they disagreed with the price of something, and he had to deal with maxed out cards.

He’d been working at register 9, fielding about a third of the customers (the others were in line at register 16, the tobacco checkout, and register 4, the 10-items-or-less checkout), because of course they had 25 registers and only three open at a time.

“Just this, please,” someone said, setting down a bag of Dove chocolates.

“How are you today?” he asked automatically as he scanned them. When he looked up to properly engage them, he realized it was the girl who’d run into him. “Did you find your parents?”

She turned bright red. “It is you. I’m so sorry that I ran into you the other day—I promise I’m usually much more aware of my surroundings. Not necessarily more graceful, but at least I don’t run into people normally.”

Unable to stop himself, he grinned. She was adorable. “Barely felt it,” he lied. Not that it was still bothering him or anything.

“Right,” she said, still blushing. “I feel like I should buy you a candy bar or something to make it up to you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, chuckling. “I can’t eat while I’m up here anyway. Just water. Your total is 4.35.”

"That's terrible."

"That's Walmart."

"I see your point." She handed over the cash in exact change, took her receipt and single bag, and then hurried off. “Happy Holidays!” she called over her shoulder.

“You too!”

* * *

 

**Three**

It was 2:00 am and Scott was restocking shelves tiredly and wishing he worked literally anywhere else. But he only had another hour before he could go home, and luckily, there were only a handful of customers in the store. Why they had to stay open all night was beyond him, but he supposed, imagining he didn't work here, he could imagine going to one of the few 24 hour establishments in town when he needed a break from studying. 

“Hey, sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find out the price on this,” someone said, coming to stand next to him. She was yawning as he turned to face her, eyes shut and mouth covered. She blinked away the tears that had gathered and smiled at him.

It was almost unsurprising to see her. “Are you following me?” he asked slowly.

“I keep hoping you won’t remember me,” she sighed, rubbing her eyes. “But I promise I’m not that creepy. I’m just trying to get Christmas shopping done and keep running into you. Are you like, the only employee here?” She yawned again.

He laughed and shook his head. “No, but there aren’t very many of us right now. The closest price scanner is a couple aisles over. Do you see that sign right there?” He pointed to the left.

She squinted in that direction and nodded. “Ok, yeah. Thanks, um—“ She glanced at his nametag. “Scott.”

“No problem,” he said, and turned back to the shelves.

She started to walk away, down the aisle, but stopped at the last minute to call back, “I’m Kira, by the way. Since I keep seeing you.”

He waved. “Nice to meet you, Kira.”

She smiled. “Happy Holidays,” she said, and then disappeared.

* * *

 

**Four**

The next time he sees her, there’s only a week before Christmas and she’s standing in the candle aisle, apparently unable to decide between pumpkin spice and peppermint mocha. Well, it’s either that, or she’s completely out of it.

Because it’s technically doing his job, he decides to approach her. “Do you need any help?” he asks.

Kira jumps, startled. “Oh, Scott. Hey.” She looks exhausted and more than a little strung out. “I’ve been studying and I needed to get out of my dorm, like, immediately. But it apparently killed all my brainpower because right now I’m trying to decide if it’s harmful to cows for me to light this candle and if it is, does that even matter to me? Do I even want a candle? I have no idea. And yet, here I am.”

“Are you totally filled up with caffeine?” he asked curiously.

“Little bit,” she admitted.

“So it would be bad for me to ask you to get coffee with me in—“ He paused to look at his watch. “Thirty minutes?”

She blinked at him, and then grinned. “I could go for tea.”

His heart fluttered. “Meet you at the doors on the produce side?”

“Perfect,” she said, smiling at him.

He was hard pressed not to just stand there and smile back at her for thirty minutes, but he did have a job to do. “Hey, Kira?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d go with the pumpkin. It will warm up your studying area and calm you down.”

She grabbed the candle. “You’re the expert.”

Maybe. But he still hated his job.


End file.
